A Thousand Words and Maybe More
by frickface
Summary: Dave finds a photograph of a younger Bro and his best friend who looks an awful lot like John. Bro's totally unironic grin speaks a thousand words and the bucktoothed dude's arm around his bro's waist tells a little more, but Dave wants the whole story.
1. livin' the suite life or are you

****Title:** **A Thousand Words (and maybe more)**  
><strong>Universe:<strong>** Homestuck  
><strong>Chapters: **1 out of 3**  
><strong>Pairings:<strong>** None (but mentions of Dirk/Jake)  
><strong>Genres: **Humour, Family **  
><strong>Rating:<strong> **T**  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> **I do not own these characters.**  
><strong>Notes: <strong>**Just something that's been sitting in the back of my mind for a while. Reviews would be awesome. **  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>**Swearing. Mentions of homosexual shenanigans. Nothing explicit of course.

* * *

><p><strong>I<strong>

Your name is Dave Strider and you live in a pretty sweet apartment with your good ol' Bro (that's coolkid speak for deranged guardian with a puppet fetish but you still love him pretty unironically).

Right, so anyway. Your apartment or more specifically, yours and your bro's apartment is pretty sweet. It's got a living room, two bedrooms, a kitchen and a bathroom. You get one of the bedrooms, obviously, and you just manage cram all your shit in there. Your bro spends most of his time in the living and crashes on the futon, so that still leaves you guys with one more bedroom. At first, you reckoned that it was going to be some sort of guest room, but no. Bro keeps it locked at all times and you've only ever seen him go in there once and that's when you were like, ten, or something.

You're thirteen now and curiosity has you restless as fuck. Or more specifically, curiosity has you standing outside the bedroom door, hoping from foot to foot. It's not like you don't know how to pick a lock. You know how to pick a lock and Bro knows you know. Hell, he's the one who to taught to you how to pick a whole lot of locks (why he did is the question) and it's pretty much the only reason neither of you ever lock doors anymore. Not even the bathroom door but that's more for irony's sake.

So unless that door is password encrypted, you're not really sure _why_ he's even bothered. Maybe it serves more as a warning? You can practically here his deep monotone voice with only the slightest warning lilt in your head and it's actually a little bit scary. _Stay the fuck out, Dave_.

Maybe it's where he stores all his, like, really expensive smuppets or where he films some seriously delirious biznasty that he doesn't want you to see.

Eugh.

Now you're not really sure you _want_ to see what's in there. Okay, so that's a lie. In fact, you're already hunched over the knob before you even know what you're doing (another lie, what are you even saying) and –

Voi-fucking-la.

The door unlocks with a slight _click_ and you mentally high-five yourself. Why haven't you tried this before? Oh that's right. Before last week, you hadn't really thought twice about the room. It was always just one of those things that you didn't question. But your best bro John Egbert had brought it up during his latest stay"So what's in there, Dave?"I...have no fucking idea."But this is your home. How can you not know? And you haven't been able to stop thinking about it since (ugh, damn you, Egbert.)

In the most clichéd way it could possible pull off, the door swings open ominously, complete with eerie hinge-creaking and dramatic light from the hallway pouring into the dark room. You peer in tentatively and the sight that greets you nothing at all what you've mentally been steeling yourself for.

"Woah," your jaw drops (very uncool, you know) and you even push your shades up into your hair just to make sure that you are totally seeing things properly. Fumbling for a switch on the wall, you let out a low whistle when the light flickers once, twice, and then sweeps across the room and falls over piles and piles of what you are pretty damn sure are robots.

Wow, what the fuck, Bro?

There are bits of metal _everywhere_. Wires lie tangled and scattered on the floor and some even hang overhead on the ceiling. A crooked working bench stacked with tools and rags is pushed up against the back wall. The robots themselves, however, are covered with dusty white bed sheets or clear plastic.

Two catch your eye.

One robot, smaller than the rest is sitting slumped against the workbench; backwards hat low on its forehead, eyes devoid of any spark. It's kind of cute, you guess. You wouldn't fucking know what's cute or not, but yeah, you guess you could call it that. It isn't exactly the kind of robot you'd design yourself though and it looks out of place amongst the more bulky looking things. The other robot is a little (lot) more unnerving.

It's almost an exact replica of your brother. It's a little shorter and leaner, like a younger version of your bro with perfectly sculpted metallic hair, translucent red shades and a blue hat not unlike Bro's sprayed onto the robot's torso. You smile slightly (because fuck it, Bro's not there to see) and you wonder if that's what his hair looks like if it's not squished under his dumb hat all time. A katana rests loosely in its grip and for some reason, its lifelessness distresses you. Even in this state, the damn thing is poised to strife, as if someone had hit the pause button on your bro and turned him into a steel statue. You shiver and move away when you realise how close you are to it. Just what was all of this?

You drift towards the workbench, mind racing and fingertips barely brushing against the covers thrown over the other robots. You don't really want to disturb anything; in fact, you're pretty sure that heavy lead thing in your stomach isn't indigestion it's more like guilt. Partly because you know you aren't supposed to be in here, and partly because you feel as if you're intruding on something private. Like a secret you were never supposed to know until Bro was ready to tell you. You swallow and your hand hovers over the bench hesitantly.

You _really_ shouldn't be in here. There was a reason why the door was locked. There was a reason why Bro acted cagey about this room whenever you brought it up. You turn quickly, ready to abscond right the fuck out of there, but you aren't quick enough. Something catches your attention from your peripherals and your curse under your breath. You were never going to get out and you were going to get caught.

But you'll be damned if you don't check that photograph out _right now_.


	2. im sorry ok not really but i kind of am

****Title:** **A Thousand Words (and maybe more)**  
><strong>Universe:<strong>** Homestuck  
><strong>Chapters: **1 out of 3**  
><strong>Pairings:<strong>** None (but mentions of Dirk/Jake)  
><strong>Genres: **Humour, Family **  
><strong>Rating:<strong> **T**  
><strong>Disclaimer:<strong> **I do not own these characters.**  
><strong>Notes: <strong>**WOW I AM REALLY SORRY THAT THIS TOOK FOREVER TO GET OUT? But I had a lot of fun writing this chapter, and I hope you guys enjoy it, uheheh. I think I'm gonna amp it up to three chapters. Last chapter coming up, I swear. Reviews would be awesome. **  
><strong>Warnings: <strong>**Swearing. Mentions of homosexual shenanigans. Nothing explicit of course.

* * *

><p><strong>II<strong>

You have never, in your thirteen years, seen your brother _grin_.

Like, ever.

It's a little bit terrifying.

You've seen him smile, sure, but you can count on one hand how many times you've actually seen him do it. He smirks a lot. But, yeah, that's about it.

The picture is caught precariously between your fingers like it's something hot that you are two seconds away from dropping. You swallow nervously and you know you're acting like a huge dork, but _what if he comes home and sees you he is going kill you oh shit oh shit hurry up get the out of there._ But y'know. You don't. You keep staring at the photograph because wow, is that really your Bro?

It's nothing out of the ordinary, you guess. Just two teenage boys being bros. You and John have plenty of photos that look like this one. Well, you aren't grinning in any of them and John doesn't have his arm _around your waist _in any of them. And that's what makes this such a huge deal to you.

Bro is _grinning_ and he has _some guy's arm around his waist_.

Just who the hell was he anyway?

You've seen Bro come home with girls and you've seen him come home with guys, so that's nothing new. It's just that you've just never seen him come home with a guy who looked anything like the one in the photograph.

_Bro's heaps young here though_, you reason with yourself. He could have fallen out of contact with him a long time ago, but the longer you stare at the picture and the longer you think about how happy your guardian looks; you can't bring yourself to believe that Bro would have parted ways with this guy willingly. Something must have happened.

It takes you a little bit of effort but you finally tear your eyes away from your brother's face to study his companion closer. You choke on your spit when you realise that he could be John's double. He's a little broader around the shoulders though; taller too, with eyes as green as the foliage around him and your brother. Both their cheeks are almost touching and his grin is bigger than Bro's (which actually looks like quite a feat since Bro's grin is already pretty fucking wide). His strong arm, peppered with bruises and scars that look white against his sun-kissed skin is wrapped tightly around your brother (correction: your brother's waist) in something that isn't a strictly bromantic embrace. Nope. In fact, it's bordering on _totally not platonic._

"Dave,"

Oh motherfuck.

Your bro's voice rings out from the front door and you can hear his shoes hit the wall as he kicks them off. You've got to get out of there, right now. The door creaks as it shuts and just as you hear the lock gently click into place, you're flinging yourself out of the room, shutting the door behind you as quietly as you can and landing in the best commando roll you have ever pulled off and start making a beeline straight for the kitchen.

"Dave, what the hell are you doing,"

You freeze. Embarrassment trickles down your spine and you turn your head slowly to face him, making sure to keep your expression stoic. He doesn't know anything. It's fine. You're in the clear. He's still staring at you and he's got two boxes of pizza in one hand so you're guessing he just got back from a gig and he's in a good mood.

"Hey bro, what up," you shrug, nonchalantly. "I was just goin' to grab a drink or something."

"So do you just commando roll everywhere in the house or what," Bro starts moving towards the futon to drop the pizzas down on the coffee table and you're about to quip something back when Bro, with his back still to you says, "What's that in your hand, lil' man,"

In your hand? The hell you on about Bro oh.

Shit.

You've still got the photo in your hand. You kick yourself mentally and Bro cranes his neck to the side to shoot you a glance when you don't respond.

"None a' your business," you say a little too defensively and before you know it Bro's walking towards you. You step back involuntarily and you let your lips twitch downward slightly.

"S'it a letter from your boyfriend?" he teases and you snort.

"Why, you jealous?"

Bro scrunches his nose up at you. "Gross."

You snicker when it proves to be deterrent enough. Or at least, you thought so. He stops but he doesn't leave and you can _feel_ him staring you down.

"Have you been going through my shit again,"

You swallow. "Fuck no,"

"Show it to me, Dave."

"No."

The air seems to shimmer for a moment and it literally takes you two seconds to process Bro's movement. With adrenaline as your prime driving force, you lurch to the side and just barely dodge your guardian's grab for the photograph in your hand. It quickly escalates into a flashstep tango. You're surprised this has even gone on for as long as it has which is about ten seconds before Bro snatches you up by the ankle and holds you suspended, upside-down, in the air. You fumble with one hand to keep your shades on and you promptly shove the photograph down your pants with the other.

Bro quirks both brows up at you and you resist the urge to stick your tongue out at him while mentally apologizing for shoving the thing down your pants (wow, that sounded dirtier than you expected).

"David,"

"Broderick,"

"That's not even my name, you dickwad,"

You shrug and fold your arms over your chest, trying to look as indignant as you can while upside-down. The blood is rushing to your head and you can bet your face is redder than a blushing virgin's. "You ain't gettin' it."

"Yeah?"

"Yeah,"

And then suddenly, he's tickling you, rough fingers digging into your sides, under your neck you can't help it. You shriek.

"No! No, Bro, don't ahaha! Hahahaha! Stop you fuuu –hahahhaaa- cker! Stooooop!" He's got you wheezing in seconds and crying within the next minute. You know you've lost all the cool points _all of them_. But you don't care right now. All you care about is getting as far away from him as possible.

But you struggle to no avail. Bro's deft fingers keep tickling you until you can't even keep shouting and you're scarcely breathing. Thankfully, your douchebag guardian seems to realise that you couldn't tell him that you give up even if you wanted to. He sets you down and your knees almost buckle, but Bro leaves you alone until you catch your breath, hunched over your shoulders and trying to wipe tears from your face. _God you hate that man._

He opens his mouth and you hold up a hand, "Wait a sec," you say shakily before straightening yourself out. Your glasses are askew, your face is flushed bright red and your hair you don't even want to get started on your hair.

Eventually, he begins to get impatient with you and your hurriedly stick your hand back down your pants and retrieve the photograph. You thrust it against his chest begrudgingly and mutter something about accidentally peeing on it. He ignores you and smoothes the photo out.

You brace yourself and when Bro goes completely still, you blurt out, "I'm so fucking sorry."  
>And you really fucking are.<p> 


End file.
